pulse and other new york poems
As a final project for a course exploring New York City, I wrote a collection of poems in an attempt to parse the idiosyncrasies that lie beneath the sensory overload of such a potent city. I started by dousing myself in the words of classic New York poets. I spent several days in McNally Jackson and Strand like a child let loose in a candy store. While by no means an exhaustive list, I was able to soak up the energy of writers such as Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, Frank O’Hara, and Eileen Myles. I challenged myself to visit places in the city where I normally wouldn’t frequent, as well as critically observe the places I go every day. The spontaneity of Kerouac’s style motivated me to allow a stream-of-consciousness flow rather than overly pondering, dissecting, and analyzing as I wrote. I felt moved by the irreverent perspective and political force of Ginsberg, the observational facility and journalistic style of O’Hara, and the emotional vulnerability and sharp honesty of Myles and Donnelly. What follows is a collection of poems that poured out of me as I became saturated in one of the most exhilarating and perplexing places I have ever been, and for that, I can only thank the poets who came before me and scaled this unfamiliar territory so I could too.
pulse
people go to new york
because it’s **NEW YORK**
but when you veer past
the positive feedback loop
of 32nd to 42nd street
when you pry your way
into the underbelly
of this pulsing cesspool
the billboards and keychains
seem to melt in a pool
of their own irony
because new york
could make
a brooding bigot cry
new york is
the infant drop-off at the fire station, climbing twelve floors just to get a breath of fresh air, walking with your shoes untied on st. marks, knobby knees restless on the train, hell-bent crackheads at noon, that 5-inch space in between the third generation polish meat shop and sweetgreen, walking with lead in your step in the hot rain, dust in your eyes and dirt under your fingernails but along for the ride, a sweat-stained pillowcase while your stomach does ollies on cobblestone, sinking sweetly into grimy tunnels
“howl” — gen z edition
I saw the best minds of my generation
fall comatose
as the hum of a screen
pulsed and parsed
its wicked grin
I saw 10s and 2s turn to
4s and 7s
recalibrated for an efficient age
10s not 10s anymore because
the phone was in the way
I saw the bare skin of girls
with too much trust
body parts thrust
through ethernet cables and into
the slimy hands of boys
with too much internet access
I saw kids with a coded adolescence
every move calculated, enumerated
adjusted for inflation
each edge smoothed
beware of the 10s and the 2s
who brave red eyes to class
because the internet never dies
and besides, it’s all a formula anyway
who treat humanity like a system error
a bump in the street
heads down
don’t turn around
who hold dripping gold in their hands
a warm, buzzing escape
for the moments of awkwardness
the idiosyncrasies that can’t be optimized
can’t be contained algorithmically
who have retired
from pornhub
and find linkedin the quicker option
who shove resumes at holograms,
eyes grimacing
nauseously pushing it towards them
looking away
trying to get as far from their brand as possible
but a digital footprint can’t run
who are forced to scale boulders through thick snow with a smile
then call themselves agile under ‘skills’
to herd into the surveillance economy
learn the language, go down the memory hole
2 + 2 = 5
but reversed
because the math has been rehearsed
in the name of logic and reason
but what treason is committed
when doublethink is preferred to truth
who lit spliffs and played tricks as they bathed in the night
free from blue light
sketch of west village
places of worship
squeezed between
12-storied startups
‘cross the zig zag avenues
toward bleeker
“a highly specific,
defiantly incomplete
history of the early
21st century”
kept by marx
at the unoppressive
nonimperialist
bargain bookstore
terraced brick
survived the
pastel brunch spots,
the instagrammable
french toast
cocktail glasses jut from brick
floral peace wreaths
and psychic stops
in neon signs
a 12 year old girl
curly ringlets
skateboards fervently
down carmine
if thomas paine
had died in this spot
a few centuries later
maybe he would have
glided down 7th avenue
on a skateboard
shouting sweet nothings
about freedom and democracy
girls in high-waisted shorts
scamper on
following clean white backgrounds
to observe their faces
from different angles
hibiscus and ivy surround
brunchgoers at the
boucherie
a jet black billboard
chronicles those with aids
stonewall sits proudly
next to a shop
bouncing with puppies
who don’t know what pride is
but they’re proud to be alive
the statues in christopher park
are having more interaction
than the people on benches
hiding in the ivy-covered
side streets
an ad hoc kitchen
down a tiny set of moss-covered steps
where everything is on sale
sofas, coat racks, the coat on the coat rack
vintage, supposedly
sun spots
new york makes me feel like holden caulfield
in strange hotel rooms
making smalltalk with dodgy whores
it makes me feel like jay gatsby
reminiscing on the grandeur
of crystal glazed parties
“in my heyday”
I would say
in union square
I stare
(it’s more of a glare)
at these sun spots
as they feel more like
a subtle undoing
a look at the end
in its ecstasy
its apathy
looking for what they have
someone come find me
lay in the grass
and play with my cheeks
new york makes me think of jack
makes me think of that tree
we’d meet at after school
when our backpacks felt heaviest
as I lay in this grass
this democratic grass
this new york grass
this america grass
possibilities endless
but I sit here breathless
as I glare at these clouds
that will never rain on him again
east side sketch
east ninth street and third avenue
clear glasses salt and pepper
needs a haircut
I wonder if he’s a substitute teacher
or if he goes to bars to talk to
underage girls about
nietzsche
and mansplains alexandria ocasio cortez
christopher park
from christopher park
stonewall inn is dark
the glitz of pride brims near
but underneath is despair
wear
tear
hiked up fares
still, little flags
beam and flitter
as stonewall sits bitter
for all the flags and signs
and floats in a line
a kid sits at home
and closes their blinds
the signs and dimes
are trying
but where were they
when the kids were dying
cavity
that woman over there
with an ill-fitting hat
and the indie song
that takes itself too
seriously
it all seems like
some sort of
crude excrement
sloshed together
in the bubbling stomach
of elon musk
or whatever god
we fancy these days
an acidic mixture
of ginger
black pepper
and lime
sour and twisted
even the sweet moments
feel wrong
sickly sweet
like artificial frosting
on the playground
in 3rd grade
I want the content
on each person’s screen
to be tattooed on their face
the victoria’s secret
semi-annual sale
imessage
google docs
or better yet
overlay them all
grind it all up and
squeeze it into
that gurgling digestive cavity
for all of us to see
maybe then
we’ll talk to each other
ginger tea
as I tried to figure out
just how to write this poem
a 20-something with a man bun
and kurt vonnegut
tucked into his corduroys
gave me a perfect place to start
who comes into a vegan shop
in carroll gardens?
cbd, ginger tea
pass the avocado, please
sit outside, feel alive
eat your quinoa, drink a vibe
health as a brand
brand as a line in the sand
planted
taken for granted
white faces
black and brown traces
in each bite, respite
cbd infused green tea
served separately
than mandatory minimums
one in four black men
caged for possession
for what’s now prescribed
for depression
eat your kale, go to jail
molasses
manhattan floats
in silk molasses
anchored by a dying woman
held together
with stone and string
tempered glass
and warm machines
molasses melts
thick
and then thin
as the tips of the boxes
pierce string
mossy pillars
tar and tack
piece together
all that’s left
so linger on
as statues do
without a voice
to speak the truth
sketch of 14th & 3rd ave
flexed muscles on hot pavement
the humdrum of sidewalk stands
fruit flies, pesticides
halal meats steam the street
competing with the
supermarket rush hour
jigsaw falling into place
street lights
a busy little city
sleeps anxious
what would it be like
to live always
in the silence of night
to live always in the silence of night
and feel your heart pump
out of your chest
and into your throat
covering your face
to absorb the thick light
you feel when you
see someone walking
down the street
who dares to walk
down this sleep-crusted street?
to sit in the aching silence
with them as they pass
not even the glow
of san francisco
could threaten
the heartbeat
of this street
praise poem
praise the new york grid system
praise the god-awful grid system
of the west village
praise people who walk
on the right side of the sidewalk
praise chess players in union square
praise chili-soaked mangoes
praise the homeless man
on 3rd avenue
who weeps
when I’m trying to sleep
praise sullen little skaters
with their pale skin and
gangly limbs
in torn dickies
praise earl sweatshirt
praise dads who pay
child support
praise kids who
insist their teachers
pronounce their names right
praise my cluttered desktop
(I would feel empty without it)
praise androgynous clothing
praise film bros
praise the bechdel test
praise my nails
which have never
had the chance to grow
praise that squint
head nod
condescension
from older men
praise the wind
in my yellow
cotton dress
praise homeopathic medicine
praise vaccines
praise $13 avocado toast
praise camp
praise 2nd graders
who read at a 4th
grade level
praise sigma nu
praise hashtags
— that don’t convey
significant information
but add an air of
lightheartedness
to an otherwise
mutually disconcerting
bikini pic —
praise gen z menagerie
praise my 5th grade bully
praise the guy
who catcalled me
praise all of the guys
who have catcalled me
praise times square
praise blue gardenias
praise billie holiday
praise my heart beat
apple pay
7:44 pm on a monday
east village teems with normalcy
comp sci majors with cheeky redbubble stickers
headphones, airpods,
chargers, glasses, straws
pencils, screens
we’re all doing something
the only time
it’s okay to be amongst strangers
to sit with one another
in neutral existence
is when we’re doing something
buying something
apple pay
shrink it all
until money is
a data bit
synonymous
with a like
I remember when people
talked at coffee shops
untitled sketch
clear glasses salt and pepper
needs a haircut
I wonder if he’s a substitute teacher
or if he goes to bars to talk to
underage girls about
nietzsche
and mansplains alexandria ocasio cortez
kevin spacey
what is he looking for
in a view of “the city”?
with a furrowed brow
and kevin spacey eyes
disgust in his temple
contempt in his fist
wishing the world
and getting shit
from this stretch of brooklyn
the statue looks crooked
the city’s too small
so where is that image
so clear in his mind
where did he get it
and where has he looked?
the stench and the bench
that sits one at most
and leaves butts feeling sore
from the slats
put lines by his eyes
as he tries to disguise
all the lies he’s been
told bout manhattan
dance
the sidewalk shakes
splintering
with thee I sing
sweet land of liberty?
economy
debauchery
monopoly
it dawned on me
we do this dance
we shuffle
we shift
we go adrift
but it’s always this dance
a collective trance
a practiced stance
on the subway
on the street
the way we greet
the way we eat
the people we meet
what a feat
and when the spell is broken
(is it broken?)
a token, a chance
a breath, a glance
torn from romance
the dance
of circumstance
cellophane
loose lips sink ships
grind teeth
fake bliss
don’t look up
cause there you’ll find
a human mind
same as yours
on the train
filled with pain
cellophane
on the train
in the dark
how many hands
have made their mark?
fine lines
tired eyes
big surprise
televised
on the train
in my brain
down the drain
cellophane
cardboard
on my walk back home today
I heard cries from the street
as the cement became sky
from the l-train below
“I just want to die!
I’m already dead anyway!”
he lived on the street
like so many you meet
in the city that doesn’t sleep
the cardboard
that’s usually soaked
from the lack of eyes
and ears that approach
was answered this time
by stops in their tracks
as this withered man rocked
he rocked back and forth
his face in his hands
someone’s grandmother
looked in his eyes
with words far away
his gaze said the most
but the sirens came nonetheless
when do we stop? when do we listen?
when do cries pierce the noise?
what do we see
in a bum on the street
a human
or a carved out shell?
what was he like
before his teeth rotted over
before he made home
on the street
throne
when I was little
I used to whistle on the subway
the brooding brooklyinite
would look at his shoes
trying to hide
the twinkle in his eye
I didn’t notice
cause there I was
in my little blue dress
makin a mess
of the solid dead air
not one single care
now all I feel are eyes
surprise, demise
leave me alone
let me sit at my throne
and whistle alone
anomaly
they’re not speaking to me
they’re speaking to my body
they’re not looking at me
they’re looking at my body
they don’t see me
they see a body
an anomaly
a thing that
speaks?
eats?
needs?
space
erase my space
leave no trace
kill em with kindness
and blindness
I like this?
sorry is the word
sorry is survival
sorry for being sorry
dolly parton
drink a carton
spit it out
no calories
no doubt
shout
then say you’re sorry
spin
falling asleep with stars in your eyes
is that second
you see still air
before you keep spinning
before life gets thinner
that lift
that blip
when you reach
the top of the swing
before coming down
before the next round
that surrender
naively sweet
like that person
you meet on the street
you share a grin
because you know
you’ll never see them
again
Works Cited
Donnelly, Patrick. Little-Known Operas. Four Way Books, 2019.
Kerouac, Jack. Book of Sketches, 1952–57. Penguin Books, 2006.
Kerouac, Jack. “‘Essentials of Spontaneous Prose’ .” CPCW: The Center for Programs in
Contemporary Writing, www.writing.upenn.edu/~afilreis/88v/kerouac-spontaneous.html.
Kerouac, Jack, and Ann Charters. Scattered Poems. City Lights Books, 1985.
Kerouac, Jack, and Roy Kuhlman. Mexico City Blues. Grove Press, Inc., 1959.
Ginsberg, Allen. Howl, and Other Poems / by Allen Ginsberg. City Lights Pocket Bookshop,
1957.
Myles, Eileen. I Must Be Living Twice: New and Selected Poems 1975–2014. HarperCollins,
2015.
O’Hara, Frank, and John Ashbery. Lunch Poems. City Lights Books, 2014.
